


Gingers

by LokisGirl



Category: Megadeth, Metallica
Genre: Anal Sex, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, inappropriate lack of lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29046393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokisGirl/pseuds/LokisGirl
Summary: During the recording of ...And Justice For All, Jason begins a secret relationship with Dave. Dave's just out of rehab and trying to figure out how to be sober. Falling off the wagon leads Dave to commit a crime against Metallica. Will Jason be able to forgive him?
Relationships: Dave Mustaine/Jason Newsted
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Gingers

Mike opened the door when I knocked, grinning devilishly under his bandana. “Jason! Dude, how’s it going?” he greeted me enthusiastically. “I’m glad you’re here. You are just the guy to bring the bottom end on this little project we’ve got cookin.’ My buddy Dave’s got this riff he just whipped out, and it’s cool, but you know me. I need some bass before I can come at it with the lyrics.”

“Ah, Mr. Muir, you know I’m always ready to go. Let’s spark one and get it goin’ on!” I was amped up, itching to play anything that wasn’t Metallica. So many months on the road, the same set list over and over. I’d just been going through the motions by the end. I need something new, and Mike’s house is legendary in the Bay area for crazy jam sessions. It’s time to cut loose!

“No can do. Dave’s fresh outta rehab. We oughta respect his efforts, you know?” 

I got it. “Good thing I brought Coke and not Coors.” 

We went down the stairs to Mike’s jam space. I knew who Mike’s buddy was instantly. That fucking hair was famous. All that golden red flowing down his back like lava. This was going to get interesting.

Mike made the introductions. “Dave, Jay. Jay, Dave. No fighting, ‘kay? Neither of you know anything so keep your mouths shut about other people’s bands.” Mike laid down the law. From what I’d been told, that was more for Dave’s benefit than mine. Then again, most of what I knew- thought I knew- came from my storytelling drummer. Lars had strong opinions on everyone, and wasn’t afraid to share them. 

Dave rolled his eyes and sneered at Mike’s injunction. “How can you fight the invisible man?”

Mike shook his head. “I should have known better. Dave, I gotta tell you, man, being sober doesn’t make you any less of an asshole.” Mike turned to me. 

“Okay, okay. I said I’ll try to be nice. I’m going out for a smoke while he gets set up.” Dave took off up the same stairs we’d just come down. I set my case down on the floor and looked around for a free electrical outlet. An extension cord snaked out from Mike’s DJ gear. 

“Can I use this?” I ask Mike. He nods. I plug in my practice amp and start warming up. I run through a few scales, trading jokes with Mike. Being a big fan of Suicidal Tendencies, I’m hoping we go more his way than mine musically today. I’ve been listening to a lot of the Jane’s Addiction debut, which is weird and awesome so I try my hand at Pigs In Zen for a few bars. Mike immediately starts grooving along with me. I draw the riff as far as I can, not following the song any more, just feeling my way along.

“For a guy who’s supposed to be all about the metal, that is some funky shit you’re layin’ down, bro,” Mike claps along. “I’m gonna borrow you for Suicidal when Rob’s busy!” 

I work back to the original riff, Mike making up his own lyrics in more or less the same vein as the song. I look up to see Dave sitting on the steps, just taking it in. I’m all smiles as I nod at him. “Get your ass over here. This ain’t the Muir and Newsted show. Dave Mustaine, come on down! You’re the next contestant on the Funk is Right!” 

Mike just about fell over. It really wasn’t that funny. Mike cleared it up for me. “Oh, see now, here’s where we have a problem. Dave is the whitest guy on the planet. He has no funk in him. None whatsoever. If you listen to a Megadeth record and think you hear something even mildly funky, it’s-”

“Junior!” Dave finishes the sentence, a huge grin splitting his face. He’s actually a friendly looking guy when he stops scowling. He casts a smile my way. “I swear it’s a trend. You find fucking funky farmers freaking falling from the freeway.” 

“Dave! Don’t! Damn it! The alliteration game is only cool when it’s just us,” Mike had tears running down his face. I chuckled in spite of myself. They did sound silly. I had moments when I couldn’t help doing things like that myself. You get your brain into a pattern, and it’s hard to stop. 

I drop the funk and start a twangy country line from an old Elvis tune. “This is kinda the anti-funk…”

Dave picks up his guitar and joins in. The ice is broken, we’re gonna get along fine. A few hours pass this way, one of us starts an old song and the rest follow along as best they can. Some hits, some misses, all good times. Sex Pistols, Anti Nowhere League, Stiff Little Fingers, we start gravitating to stuff we all know. Punk rock is our common ground, a place we all feel comfortable. I’m surprised. If anyone tried to tell me I’d be jamming with Dave Mustaine, my band’s biggest enemy, I’d have dismissed the idea right away. James didn’t like it when I played with my old friends. I couldn’t imagine what he’d have to say about this. I smirk. In a way, that makes this even more fun. It amuses me that James is so possessive about all of us as if we’re all a part of his little cult and he needs to protect us from the world. It probably has something to do with his religious upbringing. My grin gets wider. I’m sinning! 

Eventually Mike decides it’s taco time and disappears to the kitchen. Dave and I wander outside to smoke. We hop up on a dilapidated picnic table, feet dangling off the side. Dave fishes a battered pack of Camels from his back pocket and offers me one. “I’ve got smokes, but no light. Dunno where it went, I lose them all the time.” 

I dig in my pocket for my Bic, and have a brief panic moment when I realize for whatever stupid reason, I’ve put it in the baggie with my weed and rolling papers. I can’t get it out without pulling the whole works out. Shit. I hope this isn’t going to be a touchy situation. It’s only pot, right? If rumours are true, Dave’s troubles were a lot bigger than a little green. There’s no way to hide it, so I just hock out the bag and pass Dave the lighter. A spark of interest crosses his eyes. I catch it, but decide I’m going to ignore it if he doesn’t outright ask if we can smoke one. I put the bag back in my pocket. 

“So... do you do anything other than smoke weed?” he asks. I shake my head. I’ve just realized Dave and I are wearing the same glasses, and for some reason I find this interesting.

“Nah, I drink a little, but mostly I just like to toke.”

“Normal people “a little” or James Hetfield’s “a little?” There’s a pretty big gap in the definitions if I remember right,” he teases.

“Actually, it’s Jason Newsted’s a little. I may have to compromise on band stuff, but I don’t follow that way. All my bad habits are my own.”

“Ok, I’ve been told! Take a little shit in the band, do ya?” Dave elbowed me. “I might know a thing or two about that.” His eyes narrow, but maintain their friendly glint. I smack him on the thigh, payback. Dave looks at me for a split second from the corner of his eye and lightning quick; he reaches out and flicks me on the shoulder, hard. The expression on his face is priceless, and for some reason the way his hair is falling around his face makes him seem innocent. Not to be outdone, I get him back on the nose. Thirty seconds later we’re chasing each other around the yard, poking and flicking, acting like little kids. Dave is right behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see if he’s going to be able to reach me. I guess that’s why I didn’t see the tree root winding across the grass. My toes dig under it and send me flying to the ground. Dave lands half on top of me, an elbow in my back. I lay there in the dirt, coughing and laughing. Dave rolls me over by my shoulder. “Are you ok? Man, I’m sorry.”

I look up at him, reaching to pick a twig out of his hair. “Just knocked the wind out of me is all. I’m ok.” My hand is still in Dave’s hair, and a small jolt of excitement points out that his knee is between mine, our legs touching right up to the hip. As I watch his face, his eyes darken a couple of shades. Mine do that too, vary with my mood. It’s cool to watch it on someone else. I’m told mine get darker when I’m angry or when I’m-Holy fuck! Dave is kissing me! I freeze. My mind is blank, but I guess my body has it’s own agenda, as I find myself pulling Dave into me, the hand in his hair curling around the back of his neck. Dave nips at my bottom lip playfully, and our kiss turns into a little mock battle for dominance, the two of us jockeying for position, wrestling around to see who’ll end up on top. Every so often, I feel Dave’s erection poking me through our jeans. It’s different than what I’m used to, but I’m having fun so it doesn’t bother me at all. I can only assume my own hard cock grinding against his hip doesn’t bother him since he keeps moving so it will happen. It feels like nothing I’ve felt before, and I shift so that his dick will be in contact with my body all the time. There’s something disorienting about wanting him. I wonder why I never wanted a guy before. I wonder how long we can do this before I come in my pants. I have no idea how long we’ve been here, making out on the ground. In our buddy’s backyard, where his neighbours can see. Oh.

I break my lips away from Dave’s, and pull away, groaning my disappointment. “Mike’s got neighbours,” I state flatly.

“Hell, Mike’s got Mike,” Dave jokes. Mike is all for people being who they are, just maybe not in his yard. We get to our feet, and brush off the dust each other. I can’t help but do a quick mental comparison when I run my hand across Dave’s crotch. I can’t be certain, but I think my dick’s bigger than his. Either way, he’s fucking hot, and I want more of what we started. 

We take a few steps towards the house, and stop. Staring at each other for a few seconds, we melt back into each other’s arms. This time the kiss is a bit rougher; it’s like we’re trying to wake each other up from a dream. Eyes wide open; we’re making a silent agreement that this is really happening. It’s bizarre, but it’s true.

Putting a good six feet between us, we walk back into Mike’s kitchen. It smells amazing. Mike has whipped up a Mexican feast. He said tacos, but he made four different kinds with rice on the side, salads, and homemade guacamole. Mike’s the man, master of the kitchen. He puts Dave to work setting the table, and drags me downstairs, ostensibly to ask a question about my bass set up.

“Bro, what are you doing?” Mike is, as always, blunt and to the point.

“What am I doing?” I try playing dumb, even though I know it won’t work.

“Both of you came in with fucking JFL. You can do whatever you want, experiment all you like. Just don’t do it with Dave. He just got out of treatment. He’s not in a good place, you know? You’re, like, taking advantage of him or something.”

“One, I didn’t start anything. Two, what’s JFL? If you’re gonna accuse me of things, I’d like to know what they are.”

Mike answers with a sarcasm sandwich. “One, it doesn’t matter if you started it or not. He’s had therapists in his head for eight weeks- that’ll leave anyone raw and open. Easily hurt by a straight boy who wants to explore. Two. JFL- Just Fucked Look. You boys didn’t fix your hair after whatever you did in my yard! I maintain a strict ‘I don’t care what you do’ policy, and you get that, but for fuck’s sake you’re both wearing those stupid painted on jeans. And you both came in with obvious boners! Dude, my mom lives here!”

I forgot all about that. I flushed a deep shade of red, embarrassment heating me right to the core. I didn’t know what to say. “Sorry,” I mumbled, fumbling an elastic into my hair in an attempt to hide my shame. 

“Not sorry ‘bout nothing. Just make sure you don’t fuck Dave up again. He’s a good guy, and he’s been through a lot. He almost died in a car wreck a while back,” Mike casually lets this information drop as though I’m not dying to know all the details. He turns on his heel and goes back upstairs.

Mike’s meal is excellent, made even better by sharing it with his big family. I don’t know where they all came from, but everyone seemed to gather from around the neighbourhood for dinner without being invited. They must be close to have such gatherings with no notice at all. I got the idea it’s a daily occurrence. I haven’t seen my family in months, and it makes me a little jealous. Mike’s family is friendly, welcoming Dave and I, asking if we’re working on a project together, how long we’re staying. One of Mike’s cousins is a beautiful girl- she makes a point of asking Dave when he’s coming back. He just smiles a wicked little smile. The whole exchange made me a little nervous.

Not long after that, Dave looks my way. “Can I get a ride home? I don’t exactly have a license any more,” he says softly. I nod. He doesn’t want to go into the whole story in front of Mike’s family. I respect that. We grab our gear from the jam space, thank Mike for everything about eighteen times, go through an endless round of hugs from the family, and get on our way. I don’t even know where Dave lives. Not that it matters, Right now I’d be willing to drive him to LA.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to go very far. For Dave, LA was a hornet’s nest of drug dealers and junkie friends. With that in mind, he’d consulted Mike, who found him a house only twenty minutes away. Coincidentally enough, Dave’s new place was right around the corner from me. I was kinda surprised by that. I always figured Dave would be the type to have a big rock star mansion, what with the size of his ego and all. Guess I was wrong; about a lot of things. We rolled up Dave’s driveway, yapping away like we’d known each other for a hundred years. Everything turned into a joke, each one feeding into the next. We talked about music and politics and touring, conscientiously avoiding the subject of what would happen now. Now that we were here, alone, at Dave’s house. All my nerve endings were on fire. It wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling, just a heightened sense of the space around me. I was acutely aware of where Dave’s limbs were, his arm draped on the centre console of my truck, inches from my own. I patted the console before I swung my door open.

“Sometimes I wish I smoked in here,” I commented, hopping out. “I like to keep it clean, and there’s nothing like ashes to get everywhere.”

“True enough.” Dave scuffed his feet across the cement slab driveway and leaned against the box beside me. He pulled out a smoke of his own, and I leaned over to light it for him. He took a drag and let out a raspy laugh. Noting my questioning glance, Dave asked his own question. “Does this mean I owe you seven years?”

“Seven years of what? Your life?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“It’s an old saying we had at my high school. If you lit someone’s cigarette for them, they owed you seven years of good sex.”

I felt a blush climb my cheeks. Damn red hair, I can’t hide anything. “I dunno. I can’t imagine having sex with the same person for seven years,” I admitted. 

“Me neither. Then again, I can’t remember the last time I got laid,” Dave matched my admission. “For the longest time, I didn’t care about it. It took time that I could have been using to get high.”

“Heroin’s a depressant, isn’t it? Is there a smack equivalent of whisky dick?” I didn’t really want an answer, but morbid curiousity took over. I’d been offered horse a few times, but always turned it down. I had a policy about my substances: if it could kill you the first time, I wasn’t touching it. 

Dave shrugged. “It’s a weird drug. For some people, it makes them hard all the time. For others, it makes ‘em totally dead, unable to feel anything,” he commented ruefully, clearly meaning that he’d been the latter. He paused for a beat. “Now I feel crazy. It’s like being a kid. A strong wind and I get a stiffy,” he laughed uncomfortably. “Someone accidentally brushes my arm in line at the bank, and I spend an hour trying to hide my crotch.”

I couldn’t help myself. Impulse took over, compelling me to run my forearm across his where we were almost touching already. I kept my face as straight as possible and looked resolutely forward for a second, ‘til I couldn’t do it anymore and cast an impish sideways glance at Dave. He pushed me away. “Don’t play with me.” A look of mortification ghosted his face, a phantom that lasted only a second; leaving me with the taste of guilt.

There was only one thing to do. I pushed myself lightly off the truck, took one last drag from my smoke, flipping the butt towards the end of the driveway. I pushed my hair back so it wouldn’t get in the way, then put a hand beside either one of Dave’s shoulders so he was trapped. I leaned into him slowly and grazed his lips with my tongue. Dave opened his mouth to me, and I leaned in further, pressing the whole length of my body against his. The world contracted down to only me and him, the street and the neighbourhood fading out of reality. Nothing mattered except his lips on mine, his hands on my hips. He pulled me in even closer, grinding my hard cock against his denim-covered pelvis. One of his hands was in my back pocket, I don’t know why, but for some reason it felt cute. I smiled into his kiss, opening my eyes to meet his, our gaze so intense his eyes didn’t seem brown, but black. He put up a hand up the back of my old Flotsam & Jetsam t-shirt as I started to bite at his neck. I needed to taste his skin, to know what his salt smelled like. I licked at his collar bone, undoing the buttons on his flannel shirt. I yanked it up as I got near the hem, not wanting to break contact below the belt. Feeling Dave’s excitement as he rubbed against me made my head spin. I finally got all those fucking buttons undone, and ran my hands up his sides, relishing his flesh under my fingertips. He started to push my t-shirt up, stopped, and pushed me away. 

He grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me up the driveway to the deep shadows between his place and the neighbour’s fence. He pushed me up against the wall, biting my nipple. My skin scraped against the stucco, but I didn’t care. I reached for Dave’s belt, hearing him gasp as he felt my hands unbuckling him. It took only an instant for him to grab the top of my button fly and tear it down. He kissed me again, harder, and I groaned as I felt my dick spring away from my body. I wrangled Dave’s zipper down. And that’s when things got real. Dave was still close enough that as soon as I got my hand out of the way, I could feel the head of his cock rubbing against my abs, maybe a half inch away from my junk. It felt strange, hot and damp, pulsating against me. I put my arms around Dave, running my nails up his back. He twisted his body a little, and his cock was touching mine. He moved his hips and stroked the length of my dick with his. I’d never felt anything like it before. I ran a hand down his arm in search of his hand, twining my fingers with his. I brought our hands down, and we kept our finger intertwined as we put our hands around both our cocks. I let him set the rhythm as we stroked frantically, devouring each other’s mouths, and digging fingernails into each other’s shoulders in a fever dream of lust. The stucco tore the skin on my back as Dave shoved me blindly against the wall when we came together. I’d never put much stock in the idea of sharing an orgasm before. Now I know what it means. 

Dave reads. A lot. His books are popping up all over my house, margins scribbled in, random receipts and bits of ephemera used as bookmarks. One morning I find a copy of Less Than Zero with Dave’s useless driver’s license stuck in it. Talk about appropriate. Over the last month, Dave’s been at my place more often than his own. His clothes are on my floor, in my closet, in my sheets. Either we’re together here or Mike’s, or I’m in the studio rehearsing for the new record. I’m practicing a lot at home too, and it’s a guarantee that I’ll never tell James how much Dave is contributing to my parts. He says he’s not doing anything, but I can read him from across the room. I watch him from my stool while I’m running through the songs, and his slightest facial expression tells me where I need to make adjustments. The record’s gonna be crazy. I’m stoked. This is the first record I’ll get a chance to have writing on. I’ve already been warned that Lars will try to take credit for my ideas, which I take as a small example of Dave’s bitterness. He really does still harbour a lot of resentment. All I know is that I’m working hard to bring the thunder. The bass is going to cement these songs, giving them a strong foundation for Kirk and James to attack from. 

When I get home most days, Dave and I sprawl out on the couch, playing video games or watching movies. If we watch movies, it’s a sure thing that I’ll be practicing while the show’s on. Every day, I play until my hands cramp. Dave will notice me slowing down, and take the instrument away silently. I’ll shoot him a dirty look, and he’ll hold up a hand, saying “Silence!” like in Wrath of Khan. I laugh every time, which makes me as big a dork as Dave. He’ll drag me over until I’m sitting between his legs, wrap his arms around me, and hold me there ‘til I relax. He pets me, which I always hated. Not anymore. He runs his fingers through my hair, following my hairline around my ears and then going down my neck, dragging his nails lightly along my skin. Once he’s got me melting back into him, he’ll start to follow my collarbones, back and forth, then ever so lightly up my throat, a little pressure to tip my head back when he gets to my chin. A little kiss on the lips, scratching the tip of my nose with his stubble, and he’s back to tracing my bones with his fingertips. He’ll trace my rib cage over my shirt, then make a path between shirt and the waist of my jeans, slowly moving back and forth until he’s got me right where he wants me. 

I lean my head back on his shoulder, turning my face into his neck. The massaging is nice, but it’s the smell of him that gets me every time. He smells like soap and smoke and something that I can only identify as Dave. That’s the thing that makes me simultaneously rubber limbed and wound up. Dave’s hair hangs over my shoulder, laying on top of mine. I twist it together idly. He has strands in his that are the same colour as mine. Dave runs his ring and pinkie fingers along the inside of my waist band, and I take the opportunity to look up, watching him watch me. The change that comes over his features gets me every time, his eyes darkening while the sometimes hard lines around his mouth soften. The idea that he gets turned on watching me get hard from him touching me seems like circular logic that shouldn’t work, but it does. Dave does a few passes of belly scratching before deciding that he really doesn’t have enough room to put his hand in my pants, so he opts to run his hand the length of my fly, squeezing my wood a little through my pants. I groan into his neck as he slowly unbuttons my jeans. He stops after the top two, folding the opened fly back so he can rub his palm in tiny circles on the head of my cock. It’s a little sticky the first couple of circuits, and then his hand picks up some moisture from my leaking head making everything smooth. I bite at his neck where I can reach it, and he tightens an arm across my chest. I get the message. I’m not to move this time. I settle for lightly grabbing a hold of his thigh as he pulls the rest of my buttons off. Dave ducks his head to nip at my ear. 

“Mmmermm,” Dave moans, just above a whisper. He slides his fingers down my shaft so his palm is still on my head, and twists his wrist so he touches every inch of me before cupping my balls. He gives them a gentle squeeze. “If you let me do this every night, I’ll never want to jerk off again. Stroking your cock is much hotter.” 

Dave’s talented hands and his words take me to a whole new level, a place where all my senses blur into one. I’m not sure where Dave stops and I start. It doesn’t matter. I’m wrapped in him, haloed in his fiery hair, in his fire. I don’t want to finish, I don’t want this to end. His words, his touch, his smell, all combine to melt away my resistance. I hear myself let out a tiny strangled sound as I come. Dave tips my head back again, putting me to sleep with another kiss.

He’s working so hard. Some nights I wake up to the sound of him singing the riffs he plays all day in his sleep. Jason wants so badly for this record to be the cement that finally binds him into Metallica. I may be on the outside, but I was in his shoes once. He’ll never be a real member of that band, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He can’t be Cliff, and James will never let him forget it. James trades barbs with me in the press because he can’t let go of me either. “Oh, we had to get rid of Dave because he was going to get us all killed.” Yeah, right. What do you mean it was just me? I saw you drinking every day.

I haven’t heard anything but Jason’s parts on this record. He’s not allowed to bring tapes home from the sessions. Of course not. They don’t even let Kirk have those. Just James and Lars, the benevolent dictators. I fill in guitar parts while I listen to Jason practicing. James is predictable in a way, so it’s easy for me to imagine what the songs should sound like. The record’s gonna be killer. It feels like someone’s twisting a knife in my guts some times. I want Jason to be successful and happy and all that good shit. But another part of me wants Metallica to fail horrifically. I want them to make a record that’s absolute crap. A giant steaming load. So I do what I can, which is to keep everything locked up in my head. 

Jason goes to the studio every morning, and I stay here in his house. I play his guitars, drink his coffee, play with his dogs. Everything is his. Even me. Occasionally, someone will come by and knock at the front door. I never answer it. The consequences are too great. Images of blood and brains dripping down the foyer wall by the door flicker through my head. My blood, James’ bullet. God forbid that Jason and I be friends, that I might have something in my life other an all-consuming need to fuck with James. Everything must be about Metallica. If James so much as heard a whisper about us, a rumour that we had even met, Jason would have to pay. James couldn’t do much to me, really. He’d already taken away the only thing he had I cared about. Jason isn’t going to go through it if I have anything to say. So I hide. From the mailman, from the plumber, from the neighbours. Just in case. Me: crazy, never backs down Dave. Hiding. I’ve become Jason’s dirty little secret. We both like it this way.

Sometimes he slips. Once he went up to Lars’ place wearing one of my shirts. Jason is not a flannel kind of guy to begin with, and that shirt had been through the wars with me. It had torn-off sleeves and bald patches like an elderly cat. Jason’s generally a pretty tidy looking guy- my shirt is definitely not his style. No comment was made, but Jay was kinda freaked out by the number of weird looks he got. 

Jason’s given up so much to be with them. He’s got at least two hundred songs and probably a thousand riffs that’ll never get used. Things that don’t fit into James’ vision of what a Metallica song sounds like. All I can do is try to distract him a little, make a bad joke or a funny face, keep him from making the record the only thing in his world. 

One day I was over at Mike’s, waiting for him to show up. He was running late from some errand, so I was playing Yahtzee with his cousin Erica. Erica’s a funny girl, she’s twelve going on forty. Erica, as usual, is full of questions. Do I know Michael Jackson? Is this my real hair colour? Do I have a girlfriend? No, yes, no. She grins at me lopsidedly. “I know why you don’t have a girlfriend! If you did, it would make Jason sad!” 

Shock ran through me. I thought we’d been doing a better job of hiding it than that. We often showed up together, but no more than other friends of ours who needed rides. I went to ask her why she thought that, and swallowed the question hard. Mike arrived with another Mike in tow. Mike Clink. The man who owes me his marriage. Possibly his career. Maybe his life. I know he owes me two months of my life- court ordered rehab time. Clinky’s a great guy and a good friend. I don’t feel any real animosity towards him. I covered for him when I could, he’ll do the same for me some day. See, my accident was actually his. He bought a new Corvette, brought it to a party where I had mine. We had a few party favours and decided it would be fun to race. He made the valid argument that I knew my car better than he knew his, an unfair advantage. So we swapped cars. One thing led to another, and he wrapped my car around a pole. Thinking that my status as a musician would make for lesser jail time, I pulled him out of the car, sent him home in his own, and took the fall for the accident. Voila, I go to rehab, he gets to keep all his clients, and no one’s the wiser.

Clinky’s working with Jason right now. With Metallica. It’s going to be a big deal. Biggest metal record of the year. Whoop de do. I’m trying hard to act uninterested, doing my best impression of myself as a snide asshole. Little digs about how it’ll take five years to get a decent drum sound out of Lars, that sort of stuff. I have a reputation to uphold. Finally Clinky gets the bright idea to play us a tape of what he thinks are going to be the final mixes, minus one or two little fixes. Good boy! Now you’re getting the idea. I’m dying to hear it. Even if it wasn’t for Jason, I’m always dying to know what the guys are up to, which riffs of mine are being recycled again. Clinky puts the tape in Mike’s stereo. 

It’s loud. A wall of guitars, a hail of gunfire drums. And no bass at all. I ask if this is intentional. Clinky nods. I want to rip his head off. There’s no bass because it doesn’t fit around the rhythm guitars. The 500 layers of James wanking? Fuck off. This record would be brutal if there was a bottom end pushing it forward. Wasn’t heavy the goal?

No. The goal was to do what the self-congratulatory bastards wanted and get paid. This cannot stand. Jason worked so hard for this. 

I think for a moment. Then I ask Clinky for a favour that could cost him his career.

I’m going to get Justice for Jason.

Arriving back at the house after a long day in the studio, I see Dave in the driveway, dribbling and shooting free throws with my old basketball. Suddenly, I‘m not so tired any more. I park on the street. Dave passes me the ball and takes a defensive position. I breeze past him, his arms waving ineffectively. I shoot: swish! The imaginary crowd goes wild! “Now that you’re warmed up, I can stop letting you win,” Dave says with a wink. 

Dave kinda sucks at hoops. It’s cool of him to play even though it usually ends with him pissed off at himself. Dave doesn’t like to fail. Tossing him the ball, I take defense, giving him a couple of pointers. He takes a run at me. Reaching out, I slap it away from him easily. “”if you drop your shoulder, it’ll make it harder for me to take the ball,” I tell him. He’s wearing the sunniest smile I’ve ever seen as he charges me full speed, trying to knock me over. Our game gets more aggressive, turning into something more like driveway football. The game no longer has rules: headlocks, ok. Poking and shoving, ok. It’s all ok. We laugh and trade hilariously crude insults, working up a good sweat while we’re at it. My t-shirt is stuck to my back and getting itchy. I toss it up on the porch railing. The late afternoon sun is friendly on my skin. I stretch my arms out, enjoying the heat. I look over at Dave. He’s absolutely motionless, clutching the ball. Just standing there staring at me.

“Hello? Earth to Dave?” I push an auburn strand of hair away from my face. Dave’s only response is a tiny sneer as he turns and walks straight into the house. What’s gotten into him? I’m not going to find out standing here. I follow him in, the sound of running water coming from upstairs. I knock at the bathroom door. “Dave, you ok in there?” No answer. I try the knob. Door’s not locked, so I push it open and stick my head in. “Dave? Are you all right?” He’s standing there in his boxers, looking lost and forlorn. I wrap my arms around him. He just stays where he is, arms limp at his sides. Putting my hands up on his shoulders, I can feel the tension in him. His muscles are rigid, as if he’s about to explode in a rage. “Is something up? Man, if I pushed your buttons out there, I’m really sorry. I thought we were having fun.”

Dave’s voice telegraphs loud and clear that he’s far away in his mind. “It’s nothing.” He shakes his head, blinking as though he’s clearing away a dream. 

“Are you sure? You feel like you’re made of rock,” I knead his shoulders. Steam starts to cloud the room from the shower. Dave looks guilty. He takes a breath deep enough that I can feel his chest rising against mine.

“I haven’t been to a meeting in a couple of days.” Shit. That can’t be good. 

“You wanna go to one tonight? There’s bound to be something somewhere,” I offer.

“I should, but I really just want to stay here with you. You’re not going back to the studio, are you?” Dave’s brown eyes were liquid. He was struggling with something, and whether or not Lars wanted me in the studio I was sticking with him. 

“Nope.” I moved my arms down to Dave’s waist, easily picking him up. Three steps and we were in the shower, shorts and all. My socks immediately started to squelch under me as Dave protested.

“What are you doing? I have clothes on! Hell, you have jeans on!” Dave was laughing. I toed my socks off so I wouldn’t slip and stuck my thumbs in the waistband of his shorts, sliding them down his legs until reaching a point where gravity would do the job for me. 

I stuck my tongue out at him. “No you don’t!” We giggled like kids and he grabbed my jeans. I’ve worn button fly jeans since an unfortunate incident in the ninth grade (zipper plus commando equals tragedy!) so he had no trouble getting them open. Getting them off was going to be another story. Skin tight and wet, they were practically glued to my legs. Dave slid down my body ‘til he hit his knees in front of me, using both hands to wiggle my soaking prison down. Mid thigh, the jeans stopped cooperating. Dave grabbed my hand, yanking me in his direction.

“Sit!” he barked. I scootched onto the tiles. Dave pulled at the pants, and they finally gave way. He tossed them in the corner with a plop. He sat down beside me, the water pelting our heads. Dave shook his hair into his face. It was still red even now that it was wet. I twisted a strand around my fingers, turning it to see all the shades. I pulled on it gently, to bring Dave close enough for me to kiss him. Dave opened his mouth to me, leaning on my chest. The kiss was gentle, reassuring, not like our usual exchanges at all- we tended to treat sex like it was an extension of rough housing, playing around until we suddenly realized there were too many clothes involved. At first, I’m not sure we even thought of what we were doing as sex at all. It was just play, unlike now. Dave broke away first, curling into me. Standing, Dave’s got me by a few inches; he’s all legs. Sitting down, he’s the exact right size to put his head on my chest. I stroked his wet hair, smiling at the beads of water caught in his eyelashes like tiny stars. “I wish I could explain to you what’s happening, but I can’t,” his voice carried more regret than I’d ever heard from him before. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Confusion welled up, pushing the air out of my lungs. Visions of Dave dead in my living room with a needle in his arm, Dave in a car wreck, Dave in a casket cascade through my mind. I really don’t want to know, but I ask anyways. “Are you using?” No recrimination, no accusation, just a simple factual inquiry.

That fleeting look of contrition clouded Dave’s features again. He stayed silent for a moment as if he was deliberating his response. “Not yet.”

I held him tighter. “Is it bad?” I’d done some research, asked a few discreet questions. For a lot of recovering junkies, the worst wasn’t the withdrawl, it was the daily struggle against the voices in their heads demanding that they get high as soon as possible. Dave had no impulse control to speak of- the same thing that made him such a fun person to be around would also be his downfall. Keeping himself on a short leash was probably killing him.

He nodded. “Yeah.” I didn’t say anything, just kissed the top of his head. “I don’t want to keep secrets from you,” he whispered.

“Then don’t,” I kissed him again, on the mouth this time. Dave bit at my lower lip as if he needed something more. Biting back, I pulled him over so he was straddling me. I bit his neck, sucking hard. It left a red mark when I let go, Dave growling deep in his throat. I ran my hands down his back, his hair sticking to my fingers. There’s too much space between us. There’s always too much space between us. Hands on his ass cheeks, I draw him closer. I want to feel him on every inch of my skin. Dave’s hands on my chest sliding to my stomach, scratching at my skin. He wraps his fingers around my cock, but now his arm’s in the way, I want his torso against mine more than I want that, so I push his hand away, one hand around his shoulders and the other still on his ass, dragging him to me, crushing us together. My hand slips on his skin, fingertip brushing between his cheeks, making the briefest possible contact with his anus. Dave moans, claiming my lips again. The sound makes my breath catch in my throat, my dick twitch. I need to hear it again, so I stroke him again on purpose this time, pressing a little harder. Dave’s moan is louder this time, even muffled by my tongue in his mouth. 

I gasp, Dave’s arousal feeding my own. His voice takes me to a level so close to the edge I’m suppressing my breathing on purpose. I have to slow down, have to calm myself. This is about Dave, what he wants. I bite at his throat, licking his Adam’s apple, sink my teeth in where his neck meets his shoulder. He arches his back, cock sliding up my belly, and there’s that noise going straight to my nerve endings. Biting the nipple that he’s so conveniently brought to my lips, I keep touching his ass, making tiny circles following the little ridge of muscles. I have no idea how far he wants to take this, so I’m not pressing any harder. That’s absolutely his call. I only want two things: for him to come so hard it wipes the memory of heroin out of his mind, and for him to call my name when he does. Focusing on making that happen, I stroke down the other side of his chest with my free hand, running it down his taut stomach and over his cock. The water is streaming over us, mixing with our sweat. The feel of his erection under my palm makes me change my mind about using my hand. I dip my head lower, trailing kisses and nips licking down his torso. Dave groans again, and my eyes flick up to his face. He’s so different now, glowing with urgency. He meets my gaze just as my lips meet his cock head. I’ve never done this before, but now I don’t want to, I need to. 

Dave puts a hand in my hair, stops my movement. His question is written all over his face- I nod slightly, going right back to where I was. Experimenting with sealing my lips around his head and working the tip with my tongue, I take a little more into my mouth as I realize I can read his body language fairly easily with the hand still behind him. I relax my throat, trying to take as much of him as possible, trying to remember what girls had done to me. I choke, bile rising in my throat. Swallowing hard, pulling away from Dave, grimacing at my failure. This is harder than it looks. Dave puts a hand on my shoulder, letting me off the hook. I swallow again, licking my lips, and go right back at it. Wrapping my fingers around his shaft so I won’t hit my gag reflex, I try just concentrating on the head again. Swirling around it with my tongue causes Dave to bury his fingers in my hair so it must be working. I scrape the underside of his dick against my teeth a little; Dave makes a guttural noise that’s the best music I’ve ever heard. He moves his hips against me- I freeze as I feel my finger sliding inside him.

Everything hangs still for a moment, I imagine the droplets suspended motionless. This could end everything right now. A growl rips from his lips as he bucks against my hand. I flick the tip of my tongue into his slit. All of Dave’s muscles contract; he pushes my head away, his hand over my eyes. I feel something hotter and heavier than the water hitting my face. I taste water and salt, something else I can’t name but that tastes like ecstasy. “Jason!” he cries. I kiss his palm. He licks the tip of my nose, my cheeks, my lips. He kisses my eyelids one at a time. The tension is gone from his face- I can still read the regret in his eyes though. 

Everything came unglued on a Tuesday. You kinda expect chaos on a Friday or a Saturday, are sorta prepared to deal with whatever comes along. You do not expect chaos to come busting down your door with six strippers and a case of Jack Daniels. Before noon on a fucking Tuesday, for chrissakes. 

I sat on the couch, flipping through the Big Book they give you at NA. I was hoping for some sort of sign, something I could use to hold back until I could get a hold of Mike. I’d already been to the only morning meeting I could find, in the back room of a closed gay bar in the Castro. It left me feeling like an outcast- I hadn’t spent my life battling homophobia, I had never self-medicated to escape the shame of being gay. Mostly the meeting left me feeling guilty- the stories they shared about hustling random men in alleys, waking up with men they didn’t know in bath houses, the San Fran gay version of rock bottom turned me on. It was all stuff I’d never thought about before. I wanted to explore that world in the worst way. Trouble being, I don’t belong there. Unless all the guys there were clones of Jason, no one would interest me. He was the only male I’d ever had that reaction to, and I didn’t really want to expand my horizons. So there I was, horny as hell and wishing I had anything stronger than lemonade in the house, thinking I might wank until I passed out instead of taking the short walk to the liquor store. I pictured Jason on his knees, that crooked grin on his face, head cocked to one side like he does when he’s trying to be funny. I hated myself for it. Feeling like I was belittling him, treating him like some backstage slut; a thing to service me. He was too good for that. I tried to come up with anything other than Jase to use for masturbation material.

An unfamiliar ding dong rang through the house. I’d never actually heard my own doorbell before. Out of habit I didn’t get up. I didn’t care who was on the other side of that door. A raspy voice dimly remembered like a wisp of a nightmare called to me, “Hey Dave! Open up! We got a present for ya!” I peered through the curtains like a scared grandma. There were demons on my front step. Two of them, black leather giants with open bottles in hand, arms draped around scantily clad girls. Nikki Sixx and Tommy Lee, the Terror Twins, sent by god to answer my prayers. How could this not be a sign? I threw open the door. The cool half of Motley Crue charged into my house like a swarm of wasps, pressing a bottle of Jack into my hands. They cranked up my stereo all the way, Motorhead chugging along to the flick of my wrist as shot after shot of whiskey went down my throat. Tommy rolled a joint, passing it to the girl on my lap. She held it between her lips, lit end in. She kissed me full on the mouth, blowing through the joint all the while. My lungs filled with smoke, my limbs tingled. Super toke! Crazy Dave is back! Nikki got the girls to take turns dancing for us until they decided it would be more fun to make out on my couch. After that it was all big blonde hair, long red nails and fake boobs. One of the girls lay back as another settled in, face between the first one’s legs. 

“Cheers!” Tommy clinked his bottle against mine. He and I made for the yard as the girls on the couch pulled Nikki into their puddle of nudity. I was sure I didn’t need to see any more of Sixx than I already had. Even from across the room, I could tell he hadn’t taken a shower in quite a while. The girls were in for a treat. Tommy leaned against the wall, gangly arms bopping as he beat a complex rhythm against his thigh. I lit a smoke, sipping whiskey. “I know that face,” Tom commented. “That’s the look of a dude who hasn’t had fun in way too long!”

I smirked. It was true. “Do you remember the night we set off all the fireworks under Ratt’s bus?” 

“Boom! And Steve Pearcy jumped out the window like his ass was on fire!” 

“Stop, drop, and roll!” we shouted together. 

Tommy told me a crazy story about a week he spent with a porn star on some Hawaiian beach. I had to admit I was absolutely jealous. Most of Megadeth’s fans are angry guys who look a lot like Junior, all long hair and Midwestern factory earnestness. Thrash doesn’t really attract the Hustler honeys and Playboy bunnies. Guess those chicks dig guys they can share make up with. My songs are about politics and rage. Tommy’s are about getting laid. I should try doing what he does. The sun blazes down on my shoulders, heat and booze speeding through my veins. I want to go faster. I look through my window, and there’s Nikki, fucking one of the strippers doggy style on my furniture. He’s such a dirty fucker, I’ll have to burn the couch after. Underneath the window, the hose for my lawn sprinkler lays coiled like an invitation. I grab the nozzle end, waggling my eyebrows at Tommy. He cracks a smile like a fried egg. He reaches for the tap as I open the front door as quietly as I can. I nod at Tommy, who’s turning several shades of red trying not to laugh. He jerks the tap all the way on. Icy cold water arcs across the room splashing Sixx’s labouring back, soaking the couch, skanks and all. Screams and swearing ensue. Tommy and I run. Tossing the hose in the yard, we head for the park on the corner. Half way there, I realize my bottle is still at the house. Plans quickly change. I’m going for that walk to the liquor store after all. 

It didn’t occur to me that our winding path was going to lead right past Jason’s place. Subtle, right? Tommy Lee, six foot three with hair down to his ass, wearing a ripped up New York Dolls shirt and leather pants like he just got off stage, eyeliner running down his face. And me, the red haired devil. You can see my hair from the moon. I’m wasted. I hope Jason’s not home. It’s, what, three in the afternoon? Jason’s gotta be out someplace with his precious fucking Metallica, that takes up all his time and attention. Off kissing Lars’ ass. Or sucking James’ dick, the voice in my head whispers. Yeah, that’s exactly it. He’s fucking James right now. Who takes eight months to make a fucking record? He been sneaking off, lying so he can spend his days with James.  
I hate James. I want him dead. I want to eliminate every trace of him from the face of the earth. Starting with his stupid fucking record that doesn’t have any bass because James was too busy fucking my Jason to record any. I’ll fix him.

Tommy is on board, up for anything. He’s loud and bouncy. We’re a neon sign that says “Up to no Good!” Rushing along past Jason’s house, I look back, checking for lights. He’s not home. Bastard. We make it to the liquor store without getting arrested. I’m wasted, but apparently that’s not a problem. I’m not sure it was ever a problem. Serenity prayer, my ass. I just needed a fucking drink. The store provides us with more liquor than we can carry, so we call a cab from a pay phone out front. 

“Dude, I’m gonna need a rail or two if we’re gonna drink this much,” Tommy comments in the back of the cab. He pulls a vial from his pants, tipping a little bump onto the webbing beside his thumb. Hoovering it up, he tosses me the vial. I don’t hesitate. My bump disappears faster than Tommy’s. My eyebrows feel like they’re shooting right off my forehead. I ‘m god. A choir of angels sings snowy praises behind my eyelids. Fuck yeah! The cab driver looks at us in the rear view mirror. “Are you…”

“Doing blow in the back of your car? Yeah. What’re you gonna do about it?” I demand.

The cabbie shakes his head. “No, man! I meant; are you who I think you are? Are you Motley Crue?” We laugh hysterically. 

Tommy drunkenly raises a hand. “I am! It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it!” 

“Unfuckinbelievable! The Crue’s in my cab! I love you guys!”

We offer the cabbie some coke. He’s stoked to party with us, calling in sick to work. He parks the cab in my driveway. My front door is wide open, and I’m pretty sure those are g-strings in my flower bed. Sixx has been busy. I can hear the sound of someone playing my guitar from the lawn. I’m rolling hard- I cannot remember why I ever wanted to give up this feeling. I high-five Nikki, introduce him to the cabbie. Turns out he thinks he’s a singer. I pick up a spare guitar, strumming experimentally. What do you know? God can play guitar. Nikki’s playing an old Aerosmith song that I barely recognize. I get in with it, then start to push him, playing faster and faster. Sixx can’t keep up. I slow down for him. The cabbie’s got an ok voice. We settle into a groove. We drink, chain smoke, and do rail after rail. Tommy and the cabbie go out for more coke. Night’s falling, and more people are arriving. The stripper hotline must be off the hook; a flood of women flows in my door. Blondes, brunettes, a smoking hot raven-haired new wave chick with a big tattoo growing up her thigh under her skirt. Then I see one that takes my breath away. I didn’t see her face, just a flood of auburn hair and skin tight jeans. I’m not god anymore. What I am is intensely lonely. Jason. My heart clenches in my chest. He seems a million miles away, with his goofy grin and his basketball. I drown him with a shot of Wild Turkey.

It’s almost time for my devious plan to go into action. Tommy and the singing cabbie return triumphant, bringing both an eight ball and the dealer with them. More drinks, more blow. Holy shit, the stories about Motley are true. They are machines. I’ve never seen so much blow disappear so fast. They should be dead, and come to think of it, I should be dead by now too. But I’m not. I’m filled with purpose. I have a mission. I’m going to get justice for Jason. While I can remember it. I poke the cabbie in the ribs, and we do one last line for courage before setting off. The cab veers erratically down the road. We’re a speeding bullet, a freight train, a million clichés that only sound cool when you’re monumentually messed up. I’m god like again. I fish in my pockets for the keys. Mike Clink’s keys to his studio. The studio where he’s been recording Metallica. Recording Metallica and just following orders to eliminate all of Jason’s hard work. Just following orders. Fucking nazi. The cabbie brings us to a crashing halt, bumper into a lamp post five or six doors down from One on One. I topple out of the cab. Keys in hand I straighten up, striding to the studio. I go down the alley beside the building, checking for lights on inside. Circling the perimeter, I find no signs of life. I’m thinking of fucking self-centred Hetfield. Taking up all Jason’s time, making him record the same stupid parts over and over just so he could throw them out in the end. Bastard. James probably knew he wasn’t ever gonna use those tracks. It probably never happened. Jason’s been here fucking Hetfield all this time. Who takes this long to record an album anyway? He’s been lying to me all this time.

My rage shakes my hands as I unlock the front door. I’ve been here before. I go straight up the stairs to the mixing room, yanking open drawers in the big desk that dominates the room. There’s a lot of gear lying around, but I have no interest in it. I want the tapes. All of them. I find a back pack under the desk, and shove the contents of the drawers in. Tapes labelled with cryptic titles: Blackened drums, One guitar. What the hell does that mean? There must be forty tapes here. I grab them all. Next floor up, Mike’s office. His safe, hidden behind the stupid sailboat painting. Lame. You deserve to get robbed just for having that, even if you did agree to it! 1,2,3,4. Easiest combination ever. And here they are. The mixes. The Masters. Ready to be shipped to the plant for pressing. Ha. Mine! Yoink! 

I’m sure I look like a vengeful demon in the dim light of the hall leaving the scene of the caper. Hey James, am I evil? Yes, I am! Ha ha ha.

I lock the door behind me, making sure to wipe the handle after with the hem of my shirt. Fingerprints, y’know? I’m the man now. No way I’ll get caught. Back to my house full of people. Maniacal energy sparks all over my skin like static electricity. Hey ho let’s go! 

There must be a hundred people at my house by this time, every one of them wrecked to the gills and thoroughly convinced they’d been hanging out with me all night. I think to myself that this is good, but I need something to solidify my alibi. I have another brainwave, another master plan. I turn my alarm clock back so it shows the time an hour earlier, when I was at One on One committing Break and Enter. Then I trade one of the Crue sluts a couple rails of the coke Tommy and I split on for a blow job. Tommy snaps a Polaroid of us with my clock legible in the background. I’ve committed the perfect crime.

Against Jason. I cannot believe I just fucking robbed Jason. He’s been working his ass off for months, and I just took everything. I’m Jim Bakker. I’m Jimmy Swaggart. I’m every two-faced politician kissing your baby while he steals your taxes. I’m a sinner. I can’t go back now. The deed is done. Another drink doesn’t budge the prison of sorrow I’m building. I wander aimlessly around the house, trailing ashes from a cigarette I’m not really smoking. It’s hot and the air is close and who the fuck are all these people? I want everything to slow down. Get the fuck away from me. I snarl my way to the basement where it’s cool. The only light is from an old bare bulb in the corner. I go towards it to find Nikki, works out on a scarred work top. Syringe, spoon, tourniquet. Oh god. My mouth goes dry. There’s sand in my veins. I watch Moses raise a needle filled with holy water, communion of angel’s light. I take a step, going to my knees beside him. A beatific halo surrounds him as he takes my arm across his thighs and pierces my willing flesh with sorrow’s remedy. Memory fades. I float in our little oasis of light. 

I didn’t so much wake up as regain consciousness. Swimming up through a sea of pain, nausea cramps my stomach. I curl fetally, throwing up in my hair. The dim light filtering in through the basement window is painfully bright on my eyes. I keep them closed. I don’t want to face what I’ve done. Scenes from last night run through my head: Nikki, Tommy, the bottles of booze, the cocaine. Oh god. The gear. I rub at the soft flesh in the crook of my elbow; there it is. The track mark. The devil’s signature in my skin again. I throw up again, tasting blood. Forcing myself to stand slowly, I turn away from the window, shielding myself from the pale light. Nearly crawling, my way up the stairs seems endless.

I hug the walls until the bathroom looms. A shower will return me to the land of the living. Maybe. The water makes my skin crawl as though tiny bugs are roaming all over me. My scalp hurts when I scrub my hair. I gulp huge mouthfuls of water from the spray, trying to rid myself of the mixed tastes of cigarettes, bile and failure. How did I get here? Why didn’t I just tell the boys to fuck off? Why? Because I wanted to do it. It’s what I do. This is all there is to me. I want my life back. I want to be around people who understand me. I’ve wasted enough of my time smiling, pretending I was having a good time sitting around with a book, sipping decaf coffee and talking about how much better things are now that I’m clear. Fuck clear. I want to get as fucked up as possible and stay that way forever. I like it that way. This is who I am. I get half-ass dried off and stumble to the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of vodka, downing it in one swallow. I find a partially smoked cigarette on the counter and light it. More vodka, and then I wander naked to the bedroom in search of clothes that aren’t covered in puke.

The bedroom is a bit of a shock. Someone must have overturned an ashtray on the duvet cover at some point. Clothes I remember starting yesterday in are strewn on the carpet. My pillow is decorated with Polaroids. I pick one up. It’s a shot of me and some girl doing something I don’t remember. The next photo is mostly the clock radio. Things start to come together for me. I needed an alibi, and this was my great plan. 

Oh jesus. Did I really do that? Did I steal Metallica’s record? I pull open the closet door, and there’s the backpack of tapes. I scrub at my face with a dry hand. I’m so fucked. There’s no coming back from this one. No forgiveness, no restitution for the unfathomable thing I’ve done. I grab the bag, tossing it on the bed while I rush into jeans, skimming into a t-shirt. Plucking my wallet out of last night’s pants, I ram my feet into sneakers. I have to escape this place, escape myself. Bag on my shoulder I’m ready to go. Two steps out the bedroom door I stop myself. Up on the shelf in my closet, hidden way in back under shoe boxes and old sweaters, in a leather case with my initials embossed on it, my works. I want to take them with me so bad. I shake off the idea, leave the case on top of the dresser. Airport security frowns on that sort of thing.

Twenty minutes later I’m in a cab to the airport. One way to Los Angeles. One way to hell. At least it’s my own hell, and not someone else’s. 

“Jason, you will not believe this. Our fucking record’s gone. One on One got robbed, and our fucking tapes are fucking gone. Fuck!”

“What? Lars, don’t fuck around with me, man. It’s a joke, right?” 

Lars was dead serious. “No fucking joke, man. The cops are here right now.” I roll my eyes. He’s got to be kidding. It’s not like we’re Led Zeppelin or something. Who would bother to steal our stuff? 

It turns out the cops don’t really think anyone would bother, and they take a perfunctory report. It’s obvious they have no intention of doing any sort of real investigation from the get-go, and when Mike Clink arrives and tells them he’s got copies of all the tapes in his office at home, the cops simply pack up, disappearing like we’d changed the channel on a shitty crime drama.

Lars and James are irate about Mike taking his work home. After a brief two-man discussion Kirk and I were left out of, they turn on Mike as one and fire him on the spot. I don’t understand why they’re mad- Mike making copies saved our asses. Whether he had permission to make them or not doesn’t matter. The important part is, the record’s not gone. We don’t have to start over. I heave a sigh of relief. 

What a day. I’m taking it in stride though. It’s almost funny. Well, some of it is downright hilarious. Lars’ eyes bugging out of his head while he freaked out was pretty surreal. All I want is a cold beer. Later, at home. First I wanna tell Dave all about this shit. It’ll get funny then, while I’m describing it to him, his golden red hair shaking as he laughs. First, I wanna see Dave. 

Something’s not right at Dave’s. The lawn is trampled, a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels is on the window sill, and I think I see women’s underwear in a bush. The front door is half open. I push it the rest of the way. “Dave?” I call.

No answer. Dave’s ordinarily neat house looks like a bomb hit it. There are empty bottles everywhere, garbage on the carpet, and the couch looks to be soaking wet. What the hell happened here? Obviously, Dave’s fallen off the wagon, but this is extreme. My eye is drawn to a white mark on the coffee table. I look at the smear a little closer. It’s powder. Coke, maybe? I’m just a pothead, I don’t exactly know how to tell the difference between coke and the- other stuff. I can’t even think the word. “Dave?” I yell again. My voice is louder, a little panicked. He’s got to be here somewhere. You don’t just walk away and leave your front door hanging open. I rush from room to room. Empty kitchen, same for the bathroom. I find Dave’s clothes on the floor there, stiff and smelly. He’s been sick. “Dave!” 

Bedroom. Bedroom. He’s gotta be in the bedroom. I hope he’s not dead. I don’t want to find Dave’s corpse, all that fire reduced to his hair, the life gone. Practically running into the bedroom, I don’t know whether to be relieved or not when he’s absent. There’s a leather case with his initials on it sitting on the dresser. I’ve never seen it before- inside there’s a row of syringes and a little spoon, plus a bit of rubber tubing: it’s got to be Dave’s works for doing heroin. Dave’s doing smack. I’m in shock. A little drinking, you sober up, you go back to AA. This, he could die. I shake my head- if the case is here, he can’t be using it. Deep breath, calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean. There’s photos on his bed. I catch his russet hair in one of the shots and pick it up. There’s Dave looking wasted. And naked. Also really fucking happy. I remember how he looked when it was me doing that for him. Did you look that fucking ecstatic then Dave? Was she better than me? Am I just another cocksucker to you?  
Fuck. Inside my head, I sound like a stupid teenager. Dave, don’t you love me? Of course he doesn’t. We’re only friends. Weird and perverted friends. Friends only. A regretful sigh chases my misguided thoughts; they weren’t even hopes. What Dave and I have is not something I want to examine, a good thorough talking about would kill us. I have a feeling it’s driven Dave to drugs already. As much fun as we have, and as good as it feels, it’s far enough from who we used to be, who we are apart, to pull the rug out from under him. We’re so different that way. Secrets are what keep me feeling independent. Secrets are what drive Dave to the needle and the bottle. Muir was right, that day so long ago when Dave and I met. I took advantage of him. Rehab made him unsteady about everything. He slipped with me. I pulled him down when I should have stopped him. I should have punched him out when he kissed me that first time, done the right thing, never spoken to him again. A clean break, one less thing for him to stress over. One less secret for us to keep.

I guess I don’t need to worry about that any more. Dave is clearly gone, maybe to this girl’s place. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have a clue how to find him. The only thing I do know is that he’s sick and I have to help him. I’m absolutely powerless to do that. 

The bedroom wall takes the brunt of my frustration. Fist, meet drywall. Cracks race away from my hand, my fist retracting to reveal the flowering hole. Over and over I lash out, a dozen violent roses for the thing that should not be. Damn it Dave, why the fuck didn’t you talk to me? A drink and a line are more important than this? Than us? Dying with a fucking needle in your arm is better than being with me? Fuck you, Dave!

I’m doing it again. I back away from thinking of it as an “us.” We’re only friends. It doesn’t fucking help. I’m tired of playing that game. I don’t give a shit what he wants to call it, or not. He’s mine, and I’m his. Fuck everyone else. Too late. Dave’s gone. Judging from all this, he’s not coming back. Not to me, anyhow.

My door creaks sympathetically as I walk in. The shadows are a comfort, obscuring objects laden with memories. Two guitars by the door, ready to hang out on the porch. Pillows propped on the couch by the tv, set just so for two people leaning on one another while watching. Dave’s hoody hanging from the newel post on the staircase. My clothing falls in a dejected heap on the floor by the bed as I crumple under defeated sheets like a rejection letter in a trash can. The linens smell like Dave, like happiness, life. My hair falls on my face as I clutch his pillow. I don’t bother to push it away. There’s nothing here to look at. 

Willing sleep to come, dark and dreamless, tossing about like a fish with hook in mouth, lying exhausted wide awake tormented by insomniac fantasies. The photos torture me, the backs of my eyelids running an endless porno show featuring my Dave’s manic smirk and the nameless girl with her perfect lips and pretty face. She touches him the way only I’m allowed to, makes him crush his hands into the sheets, makes his eyes dark with lust, makes him growl and moan. It’s all in my head; I’m helpless to stop it, helpless to look away. I open my eyes to the white wall, my imagination ramps up, running the show there too. Her hands on his deceitful skin, his cock getting hard on her tongue, her hands in his hair.

For some reason, that’s the one that stings the most. The idea of someone else touching his hair is enough to choke me, takes away everything that matters. Takes the power away, the magic of red on red. The photos, the girl, made me more alone than ever before. My fingers dig into the pillow, tearing through. I shred the case; it’s innards spill out, a parody of blood. I picture a needle digging into Dave’s skin, real blood welling up, and I know we’re both alone.

I’m pinned to the bed. I won’t sleep so I just lay there. 

The sun comes up, the sun goes down. Again. Again. The sheets are sticky, my skin itchy. My whole body hurts. I still haven’t slept. Hunger gnaws an ulcer in my stomach. I force myself out of bed. Getting dressed seems useless so I don’t bother. Lightheaded, I grog my way to the couch. Another round of memories knocks me down. Time passes, how long is impossible to tell.

Eventually, the inevitable knocks. Lars is at my door. I hear him calling, ignore him. The sound of him rummaging in my mailbox announces his entry. I wonder what I’m going to say, if my voice still works. Surprisingly, Lars doesn’t say a word when he takes in the lifeless spectacle that is me. He just flops on the opposite side of the couch. He flicks on the tv, and we sit watching Geraldo Rivera in silence. Half way through the episode, Lars uses my phone to order a pizza. The food arrives. He sets it on the coffee table and helps himself, still not speaking directly to me. The smell overwhelms me. I inhale most of the pizza in short order. Lars smiles at me. “You ready for a shower now, bro? You smell like death.” 

I take the hint. I stand under the hottest water I can stand until it goes cold. When I get out, there are clean pyjamas sitting on the sink. I put them on, grateful to Lars for being here. I stand in the doorway, wavering in my exhaustion. He takes my arm and leads me to my bed. He’s changed the sheets. I sink down and finally sleep.

The place in LA is a lot cleaner than I remember it, all things considered. I wasn’t exactly taking care of business last time I was here. It’s been nearly a year. Two months in rehab hell, and then the endless time in San Francisco. The ceiling is still tobacco smoke yellow, the carpet has burn holes and strange stains. The furniture ought to be put out of it’s misery, maybe with a blow torch. Home. Thank fucking god. I make a few calls, find out which of my dealers are still in the game, arrange for some deliveries. 

Four hours later, I’m cocooned, curled up blissfully in a sagging green arm chair, intensely focused on my fingertips. They’re fascinating; my fingerprints are complex whorls that, even though I know they’re not moving, changing as I watch, I can see how they could. The possibility is intriguing. I turn my hands this way and that, trying to see all the angles. I rub my fingertips together, relishing the intensity of the sensation. Everything is much sharper, I can even feel the slight resistance as the ridges gently catch on one another, the tectontic plates of my body’s far continents shifting in a harmless earthquake. I’m glad I’m alone. If there was someone else here, the compulsion to lay my hands on them, feel their blood flowing, would be unbearable. My hands surfing the ebb and flow of breath riding someone’s chest- Jason’s chest- ecstatic nightswimming. Jason. If I’m still enough, I can find my skin’s memory of him. 

Training my skin, my neurons, every molecule of my being to remember him is all I can do. He doesn’t belong here in this place of smack and squalor, self hate and destruction, so far away from his reality. Memories of the sound of his bass rumble around in my mind, my heart beating in sync. I don’t deserve a friend like him, with all his open arms and willingness that wraps everyone like a warm blanket. I’m a moth that’ll eat away at him ‘til there’s nothing left. A thread at a time, each time I need a piece of him to tether myself to sobriety again. 

He gives and gives, I pay him back by getting wasted. He deserves better. I can do one thing for him- I can fix the record, put him where he belongs. Where people can hear the unstoppable power that’s him. I’m going to do it as soon as I come down. From my next fix. Just one more. Nodding off, I dream of Jason’s music.

The next week or so is a blur. There must have been lucid moments. I managed to max out my credit cards having a mixing console installed in my apartment, and take a big chunk out of my savings keeping a steady supply of heroin on hand. I’m an oddly energetic junkie. Once I get back in the habit, I can maintain my happy haze and still get shit done. I spend days just listening to the tapes, sorting through hundreds of takes, Kirk’s guitars, Lars’ drums, and of course Jason. Jason’s bass is some of the best playing on the tapes. I listen to him over and over again.

I’m building castles of sound, monuments to my friend. Track after track, layers of bass complemented and embellished with guitars. It’s darker, more aggressive than what Mike Clink put together. Jason will love it. I’ve nearly eliminated the rhythm guitars, adding James’ parts only to fill in where things sound thin, holding the songs together when Kirk solos. Jason is the centrepiece of the songs now, driving every one. From my blessed-out state of opiate nirvana, they sound like heaven. If I cared about the next Megadeth record, I’d be planning to make Junior even more prominent than he already is. 

Dealers come and go. I show some of them what I’m doing, if they arrive when I’m engrossed in the mixing process. They must be talking about what they think is a new Megadeth when they leave. Rumours must be flying, Junior arrives like a whirlwind to find the truth. Did I really make a new album without him?

He recognizes that nothing is happening with Megadeth instantly. He knows my songwriting better than anyone, hears that this cannot be mine. Junior also hears exactly who it is. It’s gone unspoken between us for years; he’s a metal fan, always was; he’s heard, owns all the Metallica albums, probably knows them inside and out. David doesn’t even ask what or how, simply hooks his hair behind an ear, lights a cigarette, and puts on his work face. 

We only get a couple of songs in. David hits the stop button and turns to me. “Dave, have you listened to this on anything other than the console? I don’t think it’s going to work. On a car stereo, it’ll be mud.” Junior is jumpy, trying to tell me anything when I’m on a rampage is a dangerous job. “Mud, Dave. It defeats the whole idea of what you’re doing,” he continues. I hear the unspoken questions hanging between us. Why am I doing this at all? How did this happen?

Junior and I cook up some gear and shoot. Taking a break to enjoy the ride, I consider what’s what. He might be right. It’s no good if it’s not perfect, and it can’t be perfect if the only way to hear it right is on pro equipment. Transferring the songs to a cassette, we head downstairs. I squint in the light. Fresh air is a novelty after I don’t know how long indoors. The sun and a light breeze feel wonderful. David slips behind the wheel of his Corvette Sledgehammer while I pop the tape in. He pulls away from the building smoothly. This is old hat for us. It’s the Megadeth way. If the songs sound good on the highway, make you wanna put your foot to the floor, then we’ve got it down. 

He’s right. The subwoofers can’t handle the load if I turn it up more than half way. Anything louder and it comes across indistinct, undifferentiated. I’m focused on the details, trying to keep track of where I can tweak things. My memory fails, I can only hold a thought for seconds. It’s the junk, the gear is interfering with my gears. And that’s it. Right there in David’s car, I know if I’m going to do this for Jason, make this right, I have to stop. He’ll probably never speak to me again when he finds out what I’ve done but with any luck he’ll understand what I meant.

David drops me off afterwards. He’s only come to make certain I haven’t fired him, and maybe to see if I was alive. David and I are true friends, we’ll go back to being bandmates when we’ve worked out our shit, when we’re both well. I have to see this through, he gets that, also that I have to do it alone. Maybe he’ll even keep his mouth shut about it. 

I knew what I was up against. Going out in a blaze of glory seemed like the all or nothing thing to do, so I got my shit all together. I cut the phone line with a pocketknife- better to get it fixed later than to call for help in the middle. The kind of help I’d call would turn up with baggies of powdered hell. It was a crap shoot- either this would be the high to end all highs, or I would overdose, dead on the rug by tomorrow. Hell, I was going to spend the day on the rug anyhow. Junk sickness is never pretty. I’d already done supervised withdrawl in rehab, and mini versions on tour when we couldn’t find a conduit for drugs in some backwater town. This was gonna hurt. My hands shook as I prepped the biggest hit I’d ever taken. Needle in my arm, I took a deep breath and pushed the syringe’s plunger. Heaven’s lights came up, and then I blacked out. 

The pain was the worst thing I’ve ever felt. Illusory rats scrabbled at my intestines, cramps wracked my whole body. My back spasmed. I lay on the carpet, praying for death. Wanting nothing more than another fix to make it stop, make the agony recede. The only thing I could do was try not to move. When it overwhelmed me and I needed to give in, I slapped at the console blindly til I managed to get the play button. I’d pretend Jason was there with me, holding me as I cried, my hair matted with sweat and snot. I forced myself to drink, rivers of water. Eventually it passed, pain fading as my resolve grew. I started to feel better. I moved to the bathtub as soon as I thought I wouldn’t pass out and drown. I ran the hottest bath I could handle, soaking to lessen the muscle aches. When it got cold, I drained the tub and filled it again. 

Now. I’ve sweated, seized, cried my way off the horse. Now it’s time to do the job I started. I start mixing those tapes again. Clean and clear, the way I was those months with Jason. The only way I can hear him for real, the way he deserves to be heard.

Every hair on Lars’ head projects frustration. He’s been pulling at it, the way he does when he’s flustered. Every day, it’s the same thing. He comes over to the house, we spend some time playing music together. He’s befuddled by the fact that I won’t let him play one of the old guitars by the door. I can’t tell him why, won’t tell him who it really belongs to. He thinks a woman did this to me; I don’t have the strength to correct his assumption. I don’t even know how to explain it to myself. It’s a variety of broken I’ve never been before. 

“Relax, Jason, min ven,” he tells me. “There’s all kinds of girls out there waiting for you. Getting worked up over some gash you didn’t even bother to introduce to the family is a waste of time.”

I shrug. So long as I keep my mouth shut it won’t get any worse. I can barely imagine the look on his soft features, the shock if I told him the truth. How I’d spent months practically living with his red-haired enemy right under his nose. How he’d been so unobservant that he’d completely missed it all. Lars prided himself on knowing everybody’s business. How hurt he’d be to know how amazingly he’d failed. 

Lars takes me to James’ for a barbeque. Kirk and I hang out by his pool, talking about comic books. He and I smoke a bowl while James regales us with a he-man hunting story. We find the story hilarious, which aggravates James, making us laugh harder. James takes it in good humour. Lars does a near perfect imitation of his father mocking James’ bloodlust. Hetfield makes to toss him in the water; the rough housing makes me think of Dave. It takes me out of the moment, my shield of silence descending again. Making an effort to shake it off, I cannonball into the pool, neatly managing to soak Kirk and James at once. Dripping, they grab Lars, tossing him in after me. He belly flops in, ducks under the surface, pulling me down. Kirk jumps in after us, James following. Chasing each other around the pool, my sadness starts to evaporate in the afternoon sun. 

Time passed. After a couple of weeks I was going hours at a time with a smile on my face. Feeling like my old self, catching up with all the friends I hadn’t seen when I was up to my neck in And Justice For All. Muir called, inviting me to a house party. It was the best news I’d heard in weeks. 

My bass and a couple cases of beer loaded into my truck, I arrive at Mike’s, the sun low and expectant in the sky. Mike’s ton of cousins are all there; it takes at least a half hour to say hi and collect a round of hugs.

“Hi Jason!”

“Long time no see, ese.”

“Dude, how’s it going?”

“Did you guys finish the record yet?”

“Is Kirk here with you? He’s hot!”

“Catch the Lakers game last night?”

“I just got a new bike. You should totally come out to ride the trails by my place next week.”

“Need another beer?”

Erica, Mike’s young cousin bounces up to me, jumping up to wrap her arms around my neck. “JASON!” she shrieks joyfully. “You’re here! Where’s Dave?”

I shrug. “Haven’t seen him,” I say, trying to make it sound like I don’t really know or care who Dave is. 

She rolls her eyes at me. “Jason, you’re a lousy liar. Did you and Dave break up?”

I shoot her a glare under angry eyebrows. “Shut up, shorty. There’s people here,” I hiss. 

“So? You two were cute!”

“Erica, there was never any ‘we!’ Seriously. Stop it.”

“That’s not what I saw.”

Mike joined us, draping an arm over my shoulders. “Baby ‘Rica, we talked about this. You’re disrespecting folks’ privacy. No talkin’ ‘bout somebody’s business ‘less they say it’s okay.”

“I know. Sorry. Is this like when you said Dave was sick and you really meant he’s a junkie again?” 

Pain in my palm called my attention to the fact that my fist was involuntarily clenched, my nails digging in hard. It must show on my face. Mike squeezed my shoulder, pulling me aside. We walked a ways away from the rest of the party goers, ending up standing under the same tree where Dave first kissed me. “I didn’t want you to hear about it this way, bro,” Mike apologized. “He’s not well.”

I had to know. “Where is he?” Worry pulled at my heart again. 

“LA. From what I heard, he’s in deep. Junior says it’s the worst he’s ever seen him.”

I steeled myself. “Not my problem. Dave made his choice. He coulda asked for help any time.” The edge in my voice glinted like a weapon. 

“That’s not in his nature, man. Mustaine’s always gotta break. He’s got no bend to him.” 

“He’s gonna die,” the realization came out flat, my anger numbing my pain. 

“Never did before. He’s come through. Rock bottom and back a couple times. Question is whether or not you’ll be there when he does,” Mike’s dark eyes were gentle. “Junior did say-” he broke off. 

“Said what?” I scuffed my sneakers through the dirt, kicking the tree root that started everything. If I hadn’t fallen, none of this would be happening. I couldn’t look up from the ground. My hair fell around my face, blocking the view of everything except the spot where it started.

“Well,” Mike hesitated. “David might have mentioned that Dave was a little obsessive.”

“Obsessive?” I prodded.

“Seems he couldn’t talk about anything but you,” Mike stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, swaying uncertainly. It might be a party, but Mike didn’t drink. The swaying was Mike’s way of showing he wasn’t sure if he’d overstepped his boundaries. “Junior has his own demons, yeah, he’s not well either. The horse don’t hide the facts though- David’s not so far gone that he missed it. Davy’s only about two things right now. You, and heroin.”

“Nah. He chose the junk long ago. Even left behind a lovely souvenir photo for me,” I said bitterly. The picture still haunted me. 

Mike looked confused. “Uh, there is one other thing…”

I kicked viciously at the root. How could this get any worse? “What’s that?” I jerked my head up, eyes flashing. I didn’t mean to attack Mike, I just didn’t want to hear any of this. The sunset hit the strands of hair hanging in my eyes, the light making it look the color of Dave’s. I was going to shave my fucking head when I got home. I dragged a hand over it, pushing the offensive strands away harshly. 

Mike pursed his lips slightly, nodding slowly. He exhaled loudly, and spoke evenly, quietly. “Dave’s been working too. On something that sounds exactly like Metallica.”

I whistled low, my hand stopped on the back of my head, shocked. The break in, Dave’s disappearing act. I’d never connected the two. Motherfucker. “He wouldn’t.”

“I think maybe he did, bro. Pretty hard to mistake James for any other singer, man. You don’t think he and Mustaine started a side project, d’ya?” Mike’s little joke didn’t soften the blow. The drugs I could sort of understand, addiction being at least comprehensible. This was beyond me.

“Did he lose his fucking mind? He just up and decided to fuck with me?” To say I was taking it personally would be an understatement- it felt like I’d been violated. 

“Not exactly. More like screwing with James and Lars, I’d say.” Mike put a hand on my shoulder. “Have you heard Justice yet? I mean, the finished mixes?”

I couldn’t say that I had. It was all up to James and Lars. It was easier for us all if Kirk and I got out of the way, letting them do what they were going to do. It’d worked for all the other albums, so I went along. I shook my head.

Mike looked a little guilty. “I have, I mean, we have. Me and Dave. Clinky came by with tapes one day, played ‘em for us.”

“So?”

“Dave was pissed. There’s no bass on Justice,” Mike brought his eyes up to mine again, corners crinkled with sincerity. He wanted me to understand, maybe to forgive. “The rough mixes Clink brought were totally dry- no bottom end that wasn’t James. No you at all.”

“You’re telling me he did this for me?” Disbelief dripped from my lips; months of work, days of rehearsals, my soul- taken. Dave betrayed me, my brothers. And I was supposed to stand here and pretend it was all okay because he did it for me? Fuck that noise. I’m going to kill him. 

“Prolly started that way, then the gear got him.”

“I should forgive him? Go to fucking LA and babysit him? Watch him kill himself?” My voice was getting louder. If I didn’t get a handle on myself, I was going to be shouting soon. I punched my fist into my other palm a few times; containing the violence seething just under the surface. My teeth ached. “Let him get away with trying to steal my work?”

“At least let him explain,” Mike stayed calm. There was nothing more for him to say. He gave me a one armed bro hug and slipped back into the party.

I leaned against the tree. In. Out. In. Out. Trying and failing to concentrate on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. I slid down the tree, sitting in a heap on the dirt. I put my head back, looking up through the branches at nothing. 

Erica came and sat crosslegged beside me. She fished in my shirt pocket for my cigarettes, lit one, and put it gently between my lips. She took my hand, sitting silently. I dragged on the smoke, exhaling slowly. We sat. Her hand was comforting. 

“Mike told me I’m not supposed to talk about other people’s business. My mom says family is our business. You and Dave are family. I can say what I want. If Mike was sick, we’d help him, so we should help Dave.” Erica’s words came out all in a rush. 

I looked at her hand in mine. I looked at all the people in the yard, friends as good as family. I looked at Erica. “Yeah. I know,” I whispered.

It was too late. By the time I got to LA, Dave was gone. No forwarding address. I hunted down Junior, his management, even one of his dealers. No one had heard from him. Junior mentioned Dave talking about moving to Phoenix. I used to live there, and had no other ideas, so that’s where I took my search. 

It was so hot. My god, I’d forgotten about that heat. Dry, oppressive, hanging still over the desert like a shroud. It dried my lips instantly, made my skin tight. I made it a vacation, hung out with my old friends. I fell into using my Metallica-learned skills, setting my expression, dodging questions, not lying but avoiding the core truth, stuff that was second nature with the press; I had never imagined doing it with my Arizona buddies. I put on my sunniest smile, pretended I’d gotten desert homesickness. I figured if Dave was in Phoenix, the best way to find him would be among my friends in the metal scene here. He’d need players. Dave Mustaine has to make music, no matter what. He’s incapable of stopping, he might as well try to hold his breath.

By the time rumour reached me that Dave had been spotted hanging out in a local guitar store, he’d moved on. Again, no one knew where to. I stuck around asking cautious questions in the guise of inter-band rivalry until my time ran out. Metallica beckoned. Our biggest tour ever was starting in a couple of days. I waited until the last second, hoping to find him before I had to go. I flew home just in time to get on the bus. I didn’t even see my house.

We’re all so amped up to be back on the road, on stage. The crowds are killer, feeding the beast that is us, that’s all of us, fans and band together. The energy builds around us, sparking, cracking, physical, and addictive. The band carries the energy offstage, propelled into debauchery by it. The first five or six shows, James and I get blasted together, drinking beers all the way through, sharing with the kids in the front row. After that, shit gets crazy: Justice takes off on the charts, suddenly there’s kids outside the hotel, and girls everywhere. People know who I am. I always take the time to hang out after the show, taking pictures with fans, signing stuff, whatever. I’ve been working for this since I was a kid, and I know what it’s like to wanna be near your heroes. Hell, that’s why I got this job. It goes to my head a bit. Everyone wants to be me, or be with me. I’m in Metallica! I start getting friendlier with the girls backstage. Why not? They want me. I might not exactly want them, but I certainly want something. It gets easier and easier as time goes by. 

The fans bring us things- artwork, poems, mixed tapes, toys. I can’t bring myself to throw them away, and they take up a lot of space on the bus. At one of the hotels, I manage to find cardboard boxes I can fill with the mementos and gifts. I pack them up, mailing them home. James thinks it’s funny that I want to keep “all that crap.” Each new box gets me the same tired comment: “wrapping up your fucking love letters there, spinster?” I give him the finger and move on.

The tour stretches on interminably. Six months, eight months. More. I feel disconnected, as if there’s nothing real. Hotel rooms all look the same, and backstage in every arena too. Gray concrete walls and folding chairs. The only that changes is the accent. The connections between bandmates that got so deep so fast at the beginning of the tour are starting to fray. We’re chafing from being tethered together with schedules and appearances. I miss my house. I miss my bed, my bed with no expectations in it, no girl who wants a story to tell her friends about how good that guy from Metallica was. More than once I’ve been called Lars in bed, and I won’t miss that. I do miss my life before this monstrosity, when I knew who my friends were. Or thought I did. 

Finally, I get to go home. Thank god. My own house, with my own sheets, and my porch, and all my things. And my giant pile of mail. Nine months’ worth of mail. Postcards from Europe, letters from lawyers and friends, birthday cards five months old. The boxes of fan mementoes are okay as they are. I’m gonna have fun opening them later, when I’ve started to miss the road. Right now, they’re in the way. I’m going to want my table clear. Deciding the hall closet is the right place for the boxes, I start moving them, looking at the postmarks. My handwriting loops across the top of the boxes, getting worse the later the date, until the one from two weeks ago is just a scrawl. I don’t know how it got here. Only one more to go. I pick it up- there’s no handwriting. It’s a typed label. Definitely not one of mine. I carry it to the kitchen, hunt for scissors, slice open the top. Lifting the flaps, I spot a cassette in the box. The rest is filled with DAT tapes. The stolen Justice tapes.

I put the whole mess down and walk out. I crawl into my spot on the couch, leaning against the cushions. It’s not right. Not without him here. Up the stairs I go, crawling into bed dressed. I lay there for a minute, curled up like I did those first days after he disappeared. Waves of pain crash over me, a whirlpool of emptiness pulling me down. Something snaps inside. I can’t put myself through this again. I need some answers. I force myself back downstairs. The only thing I can do is put on the only tape I have a way to play. I pop the cassette into my old boom box, a Stevie Ray Vaughn tape flying against the way in haste. Sorry, Stevie. I hit play and collapse on the couch before it starts.

It’s deep and heavy. The songs thunder out. At the very center is my playing. At the center is Dave’s heart. I sigh to myself- James was right. It was a box of fucking love letters. 

I bounced around from Phoenix to Tampa, Washington to Chicago. No matter where I went I felt out of place. Couldn’t manage to stay in one spot for more than a month; admittedly this probably didn’t help me acclimatize. I went to Brooklyn in a misguided attempt to reconnect with the Jehovah’s Witnesses of my childhood. That was a disaster, it was all a series of disasters. After that I went to a meditation retreat in Mexico that was reputed to do wonders helping recovering addicts. Turns out I fucking hate meditating. I can’t concentrate sitting still like that. My mind wanders, settling on imaginations and memories that are not conducive to sobriety. At all. If I was still enough, I could feel Jason’s touch on my skin. I could also remember hallucinating his touch over and over when I was wasted in LA, remixing Justice. It was so much stronger then. I wanted to get high so I could relive it that way. 

What I really needed was to grow a set. To go back and face Jason, have it out once and for all. Get him out of my head for good. There was zero chance of him forgiving me. That didn’t let me off the hook; when it came down to it I needed to apologize for me. Which was selfish, as usual. I’d spent my entire life ricocheting from one self-indulgent incident to the next. Jason had probably long forgotten about me. Was I just digging up graves here?

Or digging my own grave? There was no way to prepare for this latest bad idea, so I just packed my small bag and headed for the airport. I got cold feet in San Fran, and wound up going to my house instead of straight to Jase’s like I planned. I didn’t know what to say. I needed to think. I took a cab to my place. It looked condemned. There were things growing in the carpet, mold up the walls. Something was rotting in the kitchen. I booked myself into a hotel downtown and called a cleaning service.

I spent a few days wandering the streets. I wound up back at the morning meeting that started my latest fall from grace. It was the same back room, the same guys. Listening to them, I decided it was time to share. 

“Hi everyone. My name’s Dave, and I’m a junkie. And an alcoholic. I have no problem admitting those things, hell, I’ve been known to wear them as a badge of honour. The secret that eats me and feeds my disease is this: the shame and rage that grows from knowing I’m not good enough for the man I love. Can you help me get over that?”

And you know something? They could. Every one of those men had been where I was, had a broken heart, had fallen off the wagon proving to himself that he would never be deserving of affection. I wasn’t alone. They listened to my story, laughed along with me at the ludicrous things I’d done, and then helped me to see that there was nothing in my actions or my illness that made me weak or unlovable. 

I went to that meeting every day for a week straight. On the eighth day, I went up to Jason’s. I couldn’t make it up the driveway to his porch. Sitting on the curb on the other side of the street and a couple doors down, looking at the house, his house; I’m paralyzed with fear. My heart’s hammering. I can’t stop shaking. It’s too big. I can’t go over there. He doesn’t want to see me. 

I get up slowly, pushing myself off the curb as though I’m swimming in molasses. Head down, shoulders slumped, I shuffle away. I’m running away again, on autopilot. The suburban streets unfold under me, endless sidewalks taking me nowhere in particular. Just away. Away from myself, away from the question mark that is Jason’s house. The day stretches out into afternoon. I keep moving. I think about picking up my stuff and going to the next city. Dave’s tour of humiliation, 1989.

My feet had a plan even if I didn’t. I found myself at Mike’s. I didn’t really wanna see him, just his yard. It didn’t look like there was anyone around, so I let myself into the back yard. Sitting under the tree, I tried to figure out what went wrong. Well, I knew that. I went wrong. Not being able to deal with my impulses, my guilt, letting myself be a secret, even if it did keep Jason employed. Kissing him in the first place was probably where it first went wrong. We could have just been friends. I couldn’t control my impulses and now I had nothing. Not nothing, I corrected myself. I had memories that no one could take away from me. 

I heard a screen door bang. Looking up, I saw Mike coming. “Hey man. You waiting on me back here?” he smiled genuinely. “You look great, for a guy rumoured to be dead!”

“Raised myself the hard way,” I hopped up to give him a hug. It had been a long time since I’d seen him.

“Dude, you’re fucking bony!” Mike looked at me critically. I knew my cheekbones were sticking out. I’d lost a lot of weight in LA, and hadn’t gained it back yet. “I’m gonna hafta feed you,” he said seriously. Mike was determined to feed everyone who darkened his door so I didn’t take it personally.

“If you insist,” I said, my tone that of someone being put upon. Truth was, Mike’s food was my favourite in the world. No matter what he made, it would be great. 

“Come on, let’s have a look in the fridge and see what I’ve got.” Mike started towards the house and I fell into step beside him. Mike’s huge kitchen had vintage cabinets with lots of space to work. He began rummaging through the cupboards, pulling out the occasional box or can, asking me if I liked this or that. He turned to me. “Dude, I have a plan, but we’re going to have to hit the grocery store. Come for a ride with me.”

I followed Mike to his beat up Ford, and then pushed a cart around the store for him. He bought an army’s worth of vegetables, a pantry’s worth of baking supplies, and ingredients to make his own pasta. My stomach started to growl at the possibilities. Even if I was disappointed in myself, at least I was going to be well fed. Mike paused in the middle of the frozen foods, regarding me with those black eyes, that bored through you looking for the truth. “Dave, I gotta ask.”

I adjusted the collar on my jean jacket. “I know,” I said quietly, almost whispering. I raised my eyes to meet Mike’s. I wasn’t going to hide anything.

“Are you well?” he asked directly. “Off the shit?”

“Yeah. I lost two months sick this time, clean for seven so far.”

“”Ok. Glad to hear it,” he nodded. “Why did you do it?’

“Do what?”

“Don’t be stupid. You stole Metallica’s record. I know, Jason knows. Admit it.”

“It wasn’t right. They weren’t being fair to him.”

“Since when do you care about fair?”

“Since I loved him,” I was as direct as I could be, looking him right in the eye. “Love him,” I amended.

“Uh huh,” Mike was noncommittal, disinterested suddenly, as if he’d gone away in his own head. I could see the wheels turning up there. My panic welled again. “Come on,” he pulled at the cart. “We have somewhere to be.”

I choked on my own tongue so I didn’t argue with him, merely keeping mum as I helped him take the groceries to his car. He took me back to Jason’s. Big surprise. I wasn’t going in. I said as much. I’m not ready for this. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll end up dead with a needle in my arm. That’s what I’m really afraid of.

“Fine. Stay here. I’m not leaving without sayin’ hi. I’m in his damn driveway.” 

At least we out of the line of sight from the front porch, Jason’s truck blocking the view. Mike could go up, and I could stay here pretending to be dead. I slouched as far down in the passenger seat as I could. 

Looking around the street, my heart sank. I assumed the BMW with the vanity plate reading LARS SF would belong to the Danish midget, and if that was the case the jacked up Jeep behind it could only be James’ ride. Fuck. This was a really bad idea. I need to leave. Now. I got out the car, and hurried up the sidewalk. 

“Dave!” I stare straight ahead and keep moving. My shoulders stiffen, I’m in full flight mode, prepared to fight if need be. 

“Dave!” Someone’s running behind me. I’m not here, not me, I’m just some random person on the block.

“Dave!” I’m so committed to staring ahead I don’t see the hand reaching out, burying itself in my hair, grabbing my neck to spin me around. I don’t see anything except ginger flashing by before everything is obstructed by the man kissing me. His hand on my head is as insistent as his mouth on mine. Jason. My mind does a quick double take, confirming that I am, in fact, totally sober and this is really happening. Jason is kissing me again. I thought this would never happen. 

My arms go around him as tears roll down my cheeks. He breaks away from my lips, kissing at my tears. “Don’t. Dave, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here,” he whispers. Jason’s holding me on the street, in broad daylight. “Let’s go inside, ‘kay Dave?” He puts an arm around my waist and guides me toward the house. I’m totally overwhelmed; relieved and terrified together, so I just let him push me through the door. 

As soon as the door shuts behind us, he’s wrapped his arms around me again. “My god, Dave, I thought you were never coming home… I was so afraid you were dead when I couldn’t find you.”

He’s crying now, too. We’re forehead to forehead, the world curtained in golden red on all sides, our tears mingling. “I missed you so much,” Jason whispers. “Don’t leave me ever again.”

We stood there, breathing each other in. Jason’s lips find mine again, softly. We taste each other, the months fading away. Making up for missed kisses, we’re lost in us. 

“Hellige måske nok!” Lars exclaimed. He stood in the archway from the living room, looking as though the boogeyman had jumped out of the closet at him. 

Jason and I flew apart. He looked from Lars, to James at the drummer’s shoulder, to me. He reached out and took my hand. He wiped at his cheek with his shirt sleeve, squaring his shoulders. He faced his band mates head on. James regarded our hands as if they were an exotic snake twining in a tree branch. “Are you?”

I felt Jason’s energy change from the gentleness we had been sharing to something ferocious. He smiled his little grin- there was menace I had never seen before in it. He didn’t move noticeably, but his body projected violence, threat emanating from every inch of him. He cocked an eyebrow in James’ direction in challenge. “Fuck, yes.”

Everything about him dared James to make a move. 

James took a step in our direction. My eyes narrowed as I got ready to throw down. Jason made another of those imperceptible movements, putting his body between me and the big blond. James dropped his hands and walked past me, shaking his head. I didn’t turn to look as a loud slam announced his exit.

Lars practically vibrated he was so excited. The wide eyed surprise hadn’t left his face yet. “Fuck, yes? That’s it? Fuck yes? Um, you’ve got a story to tell.” 

“And I will. Later. Get out. Please.” 

“But… you and Mustaine… you can’t just…” he didn’t even know where to start.

Jason was firm. “Now, Lars. There’ll be all kinds of time tomorrow. Right now I need some time alone with Dave. Go call Kirk or something. You’re dying to already.”

“Come on. Fill me in a little before I go. When did this happen?” Lars begged. His insatiable curiosity was clearly beating manners and good sense. He was also wearing the biggest smile I’d ever seen him have. Anything that annoyed James made him happy, and this was gold in his book.

Jason thought for a minute, looking at me shyly. “I guess almost two years ago now?”

Lars goggled. “TWO YEARS?!” 

I found my voice. Jason wanted Lars to know. Okay. “Well, I guess I pretty much lived here for six months before you went on tour.”

Lars nearly fainted. Jason drew me in so he could wrap his arms around me from behind. He kissed the top of my head. I leaned against the warmth of his body, feeling the lines of his chest on my back. Feeling at home after all this time. I felt a tiny smirk bloom on my face. “TWO YEARS?” Lars repeated. He was still repeating the number to himself as he let himself out the door, closing it quietly behind him. Jason giggled into my hair. 

“Guess he didn’t see that one coming,” Jason’s mirth was contagious. I felt the laughter welling in my chest before it spilled from me in a river of relief. We shook together; I turned in Jason’s arms, kissing him one more time. 

“I’m sor-“ I tried to say. Jason cut me off, long fingers over my lips.

“I heard the tape. I get it,” his forgiveness wrapped me even more warmly than his arms.  
“Thank you, Dave. It was wonderful.” He traced my lips with his finger tip. 

“I-“

Jason cut me off again, this time with his lips. He pulled me in close, and his hands were hot on my skin as they pulled my shirt off. I skimmed his off, needing to have his flesh on mine. He bit my neck, pulling a deep growl from somewhere so deep inside me I felt it in my muscles. I licked his collarbone, biting at his shoulder, rubbing my chest against his pecs. His nipples were hard, the movement dragged trails of fire across my skin. My hands dropped down Jason’s back, the smooth planes of him pushing me to the edge. I got to his ass, and the feel of his toned cheeks under my fingers made me groan again. Oh my god. My mind was blank. Nothing mattered except having him close to me again. 

Jason’s hands were on my sides, stroking every inch he could reach. His fingers followed the line of my hips down my obliques, palming my dick. He steps back, falling against the wall, and I take the opportunity to yank at his jeans, opening his fly. I bite and lick my way down his chest until I end up on my knees. Starting at the base of Jason’s cock, I lick all the way up, savouring the taste of him. Hands on the outside of his thighs I feel him quivering slightly as I take the length of him into my mouth, laving slow circles along the underside until my nose is rubbing against his auburn treasure trail. His hand clenches in my hair while I take my time, sucking him slowly in order to have every last bit of contact I can. 

His hand goes into my armpit and he brings me to my feet. He backs me into the living room and we sort of slide down each other til we’re laying on the carpet. It’s a blur of mouths and skin and wanting. At some point Jason licks the hollow of my elbow; it makes my eyes roll back in my head. The next thing I know Jason’s got his mouth on my cock; the universe contracts to that sensation only. There’s nothing but him. I force myself to move- I need him to feel the same as I do. I shift until I manage to get my lips around his erection again. He utters a strangled sound, his fingers digging into my butt cheeks. 

We’re a closed loop, his energy feeding mine, mine feeding his, amplifying like feedback. I’m close to coming, but I’m still not close enough to him. I need to close this distance, to be part of him the way he’s part of me. “Fuck me. Fuck me please,” I hear myself begging. “I need you inside me.” 

Jason rolls so I’m straddling his face. He lets my cock slide from between his lips to suck one of my balls into his mouth, and then the other. He wraps a hand around my member, stroking hard as he plunges his pointed tongue into my asshole. He’s rimming me wetly, running his thumb over my head. I can’t take much more of this. I jerk myself away from his mouth, from the insanity-inducing heaven that is him. I slip down his body, holding him steady as I stroke my opening with his cockhead uncertainly. This is what I need, but I’m not sure I can take it. He runs a hand along my flank one more time; it pushes me into action. I open my mouth, a growl that turns into a wail of pleasure as I impale myself on his cock. He holds my sides as I buck my hips, out of control as the sensation lights up the pleasure centre of my brain better than any drug. I get myself together and we move as one. I feel him spasm as he spends himself deep inside me, my name on his lips. His orgasm triggers my own. I lay back against his chest until my breathing returns to normal. 

We’re curled into each other on the carpet. Jason’s got both his arms around me as though he’s afraid I might bolt. I have no reason to run now.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted elsewhere several years ago.


End file.
